A Trillionaire Pauper

Chapter 9

The room held its breath.

Then voices erupted all at once, crashing into each other like waves.

“Yes! Miss Doris should do it immediately!”

“Let her check it now!”

“They’re going to jail anyway!”

“This will end the nonsense!”

Confidence filled the hall. Smirks spread across faces. Most people were already convinced of the outcome before the process even began. In their minds, it was settled—Kendrick was a fraud, and tonight was his public execution.

Miss Doris slowly stood.

She was in her mid-thirties, poised and elegant, her movements refined with the kind of composure that came from years of dealing with the ultra-wealthy. She wasn’t dazzled by money, nor impressed by noise. As a certified authenticator of luxury items, antiques, rare diamonds, and precious metals, she was often flown across continents by billionaires to verify their possessions. Kings trusted her judgment. Titans waited on her words.

She adjusted her glasses, stepped forward, and slipped on a pair of white gloves.

The Hermès Birkin was handed to her.

She examined it carefully—running her fingers along the leather grain, feeling its texture, studying the stitching with trained eyes. She turned it slightly, inspected the hardware, the lock, the embossing. Every detail was scrutinized with precision.

Her face remained neutral.

After a long moment, she shook her head slightly.

The reaction was immediate.

Murmurs erupted like wildfire.

“I knew it!”

“See?!”

“Fake!”

Melissa clapped once, loudly, already savoring the moment.

Doris reached into her purse and pulled out her phone.

She dialed a number.

“Hello,” she said calmly. “Yes. I’m calling to verify a Birkin bag… yes… serial number confirmed…”

The hall went silent.

No one heard the other side of the conversation. Every eye was glued to her.

“Yes…” Doris continued.

“I see it…”

“Yes, I’m seeing something like that…”

“…thank you very much.”

She ended the call.

Then she sighed—slowly, heavily—as if burdened by what she had just confirmed.

The hall exploded.

“I knew it!” Melissa shouted triumphantly, clapping loudly. “He took his tip and bought a replica!”

Laughter burst from every corner of the room.

Paul bent over, wheezing. “Luxury delivery boy strikes again!”

The noise grew unbearable.

The Chancellor raised his hand sharply.

“Enough,” he said firmly. “Allow Miss Doris to finish.”

The laughter tapered off reluctantly.

Doris said nothing.

She reached for the Rolex.

The room leaned forward again.

She studied it closely—rotating it under the light, examining the movement, checking the engraving, verifying the serial number. Her brows knitted slightly.

“Okay…” she murmured.

A pause.

“Oh…”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Oh…”

She placed the watch gently on the table.

The Chancellor leaned forward, his voice measured. “Well?” he asked. “What are your findings?”

Doris lifted her head.

“I don’t know who this young man is,” she said slowly, her gaze settling on Kendrick, “but I believe he is worth paying attention to.”

The hall stirred uneasily.

“Pay attention to him?”

“To who?”

“That nobody?”

Doris turned fully to the crowd.

“I have just confirmed,” she said clearly, “that this Birkin bag is authentic.”

The room froze.

Not a sound.

“And not just authentic,” she continued evenly, “it is one of only seventeen produced in the last ten years.”

A collective gasp swept through the hall.

Faces drained of color. Eyes widened. Smiles died mid-expression.

“And the Rolex,” Doris added, “is also authentic. Rare. Extremely rare.”

Silence followed—thick, suffocating.

“I do not understand,” Doris finished honestly, “how a young man dressed so simply could afford items of this caliber.”

Shock detonated across the room.

Whispers turned frantic.

“No way…”

“That’s impossible…”

“Seventeen in ten years?”

Melissa staggered forward, panic bleeding into her voice.

“Kendrick!” she screamed. “You lied to me! That bag was supposed to be for me! You bought it for me, right?!”

Kendrick laughed softly, the sound low and dismissive.

“Believe whatever you want to believe.”

Melissa snapped completely.

“You lied! You’re a fraud! I’m the rightful owner of that bag!”

She rushed forward, reaching for it.

Zara reacted instantly.

She yanked the bag back and shoved Melissa hard.

Melissa stumbled, lost her balance, and fell to the floor in front of everyone.

Humiliation slapped her harder than the fall.

Laughter roared through the hall.

Bryan jumped to his feet, face flushed.

“Okay, fine!” he shouted. “The bag is real! But how did Kendrick buy it? We all know he’s poor! I took his girlfriend yesterday because I was rich enough! If he was rich, he wouldn’t have lost her to me!”

Murmurs followed quickly.

“That’s true.”

“That makes sense.”

“How did he suddenly become rich overnight?”

Someone shouted, “He must have stolen it!”

“Yes!” another voice added. “He was sent on an errand with a black card and diverted the items!”

“A desperate poor boy who just lost his girlfriend would do anything to belong!”

The word thief spread like wildfire.

Jayson and Zara stood up at the same time.

“He’s not a thief!”

“You’re all wrong!”

But the crowd drowned them out.

The Chancellor raised his hand again, commanding silence.

“That’s enough,” he said calmly. “We will settle this later.”

Grumbling followed, but people reluctantly sat back down.

“For now,” the Chancellor continued, “let us continue the celebration. We will surely deal with this matter later.”

The students murmured among themselves.

Paul stepped forward, regaining control of the stage. “It’s time to begin presenting gifts to the Chancellor.”

One by one, students came forward.

Luxury watches worth fifty thousand dollars. Rare accessories. Expensive collectibles.

Each gift was impressive—polished, costly, extravagant.

Yet none exceeded fifty thousand dollars.

Then Jayson stepped forward.

“Sir,” he said respectfully, presenting a sleek case, “this is a limited-edition pen worth ten thousand dollars.”

Clinton laughed openly.

“So cheap.”

“Too ordinary.”

Booing followed.

But the Chancellor took the pen and examined it himself.

“The ink never runs out,” Jayson explained. “It’s rechargeable. It can write in any calligraphy style and font—bold, italic. It can also register your signature and reproduce it perfectly.”

The crowd murmured in awe.

The Chancellor smiled broadly.

“Jayson,” he said warmly, “this is thoughtful. I truly love this.”

It wasn’t the price that moved him—it was the usefulness, the care behind it. He had always wanted something like this but never had the time to seek it out. Receiving it felt like a blessing.

He thanked Jayson sincerely.

Clinton and the others who had mocked the gift now stared in silence.

Zara stepped forward next.

“Sir,” she said softly, “I know how much your history means to this school and beyond. I wrote a memoir for you.”

The room stilled.

A memoir?

Murmurs and light laughter followed.

“I’ve worked on it for six months,” she continued. “From a student’s point of view. It shows your impact on education, society, and the nation.”

The Chancellor took the manuscript.

His expression changed instantly.

This was the best gift he had received all night.

No one had ever cared enough to document his life, they only care about giving him lavish gifts.

“I’ve wanted a memoir of myself for years,” he said emotionally.

He stood and hugged her.

Melissa laughed loudly at first. “A useless book?”

But when she saw the Chancellor’s reaction, she went silent and hid her face.

Paul rushed forward quickly.

“I got you a suit worth two hundred thousand dollars!” he announced. “Custom-made. Limited edition. Designed by Alexander McQueen!”

Gasps followed.

Clinton followed confidently.

“My family is now worth billions,” he said smugly. “So I got you a customized Rolls Royce worth five hundred million dollars—with your family emblem replacing the logo.”

Thunderous applause erupted.

Bryan stepped forward next.

“My family isn’t there yet,” he said proudly, “but we’re almost getting there. I booked you an entire private island in the Bahamas for one month. Five hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

More applause.

Then laughter crept back.

“What did the pauper bring?” Paul mocked, nodding toward Kendrick.

“Whatever it is, it’s stolen,” Bryan added. “Anything he brings will put the Chancellor in trouble.”

“We don’t even want it,” Clinton chipped in.

Kendrick stepped forward.

Adrian had already delivered the gift earlier. The packaging had been damaged when Kendrick checked it, so it was now wrapped in a plain nylon bag.

The crowd exploded.

“How dare you!”

“This is disrespect!”

“At least fake the packaging!”

The Chancellor raised his hand.

“Let’s see what’s inside.”

He opened the bag.

Inside lay a worn, ancient scroll.

Laughter erupted.

“What is that?”

“This stupid thing?”

The Chancellor frowned slightly.

“This may look worn,” he said slowly, “but it appears ancient… and authentic.”

Everyone turned to Kendrick, disgust clear on their faces.

“What is this?” the Chancellor asked. “Please enlighten me.”